Who are you, and what have you done with me?

Step into my head for a moment, dear readers.

Since I have no kids or husband to fret over, my family is mostly healthy, and my dog is basically the best dog on the planet and gives me no trouble whatsover, there are only two things in life I have to focus on at any given moment. I mean, outside of politics and global warming and New England sports and all those things over which I have no control. Only two things of the “I am always pondering, musing, and other pontificating in my head about these” variety.

Work, and me.

Let’s leave work and focus on the me. Yes, yes, I know, that is narcissistic but I ain’t gonna lie – it’s how it is. I spend a great deal of time asking myself such all important questions like “am I eating right? Am I exercising enough? Am I doing enough good in the world? Am I single because I’m just too weird to be someone’s partner? Do I take my good fortune for granted?  Am I a good person? Can I be doing more to help those less fortunate than I?”

I mean, seriously, when Charles Manson is getting married and I’m still on the hunt…yeah, that’s a recipe for self-reflection.

But I digress. Really, and I’m quite proud of this, I spend a lot of time working hard on the things that mean I am indeed happy and content in my own skin.

And I am, more or less.

Except for one teeny, tiny, small thing.

I have plumb lost my mind with this whole running thing.

Frequent readers, you proud few, will note that I’ve been talking about running a lot lately. Which is weird. Usually, when I “talk” about running it’s with a shake of my head and a sigh of wonder at the crazy people who run…and talk about it.

The other day, on the phone with my folks, I realized I didn’t have much to tell them about…other than my running escapades.

And tonight as I subway’d myself home, this was the debate in my head:

“Cook or get takeout?”

Cook, of course.

“But everything I have to cook will take a long time. Do you really want to wait an hour for dinner?”

Not really. Hey, here’s a thought. How about a quick run with the dog and then pick up some takeout?

“Boo on the takeout. You’re not supposed to do that.”

I know, I know. But I had NO carbs for lunch today – it was ALL protein and veggies. So if I do that, AND I run, then takeout isn’t gonna break the calorie bank.

“Ok, I can buy that. But it’s below 30 degrees – it’s cold.”

Layers.

“Hmph. You know, a run actually sounds like fun. Let’s do it.”

HOLD THE PHONE.

A run sounds like fun?

That’s it, y’all. I have officially lost it. I have been possessed by someone who is not me, because I would never, never, vocalize such lunacy.

And yet, this me-clone consulted my winter running clothes chart, layered up, hooked up the dog, and ventured out into the cold, sticking to the lighted paths and cruising along at a 10:30 pace (fast for me). I was planning to end the run at a particular restaurant, but when I checked my distance, I’d only gone 1.63 miles and said, without realizing how crazy this sounded to my former self, “Nope, gotta keep going and get to 2.” So we did. We finished our 2 miles, and just happened to wind up next to the tasty hipster burger place that serves beet fries (yes, they are as weird and as awesome as they sound). I picked up dinner, we walked another mile home, and now here I sit, feeling awesome and absurdly proud of myself, especially because I ran a full 5K on Sunday, played volleyball yesterday, and plan to run again on Friday.

I have always said, in these past 9 or so weeks of “training”, that I hate the act of running but I like the feeling afterward. It would seem to me that going out for a quick two mile run, just because it sounds like fun, would be an indication that I doth protest too much.

It’s just weird.

Anyway, if you see a chubby curly haired 38-year old wandering around Boston grumbling about how much she hates running, let me know so I can make sure she’s ok. I imagine she’s a little freaked out at being ousted by this weirdo who runs just for the fun of it.